I recognise her floating face-up with irregular
streaks of shell pink. Wavy petals—
Inside the throngs of knowing I took
her semi-formal blush for granted. She spoke
of blotched substances others never mouthed
during their sways. Web-like yet frail, this is episodic.
I am pushed to know when the camellia
first became the object of my mother’s speech—
As you survey her dining room tragedies,
note her shoulder blades as the only margins
while she prizes the camellia plant outside
the window, an evergreen centrepiece, roughly
aligned with the head of the table. A flower is not
neutral & she knows this as she folds
the circular tablecloth into neat little squares.
So why does this scene jut when embedded
into narrative? Unable to be positioned & displayed
the way she was told it should. You can choose
to watch up until this point. This room
no longer fills her, it was briny yet smooth
to purge. With little background for absorption,
I will attempt to version her fall for the flower
when the flower did not fall for her—